6. Bailey
Bailey
This inn had never felt smaller. What once felt like a space full of limitless potential now more closely resembled a cage, one that was shrinking by the minute.
I faked an excuse about needing a minute to escape Noah, his scent still clinging to me as I fled his tiny office.
Soap, cedar, and spice. My own personal aphrodisiac.
I ducked into the restroom, checking beneath the stalls before pulling out my phone and calling Harper.
My heart pounded until she answered on the third ring.
“What’s wrong?”
The fact that she already knew sent a mix of comfort and dread straight through me.
“I’m the new town whore,” I blurted out.
There was a pause, and I could practically hear the gears turning.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “I’m going to need more details. You’ve been on the job an hour, and it takes at least four hours to officially become a whore. There are procedures. Paperwork. Possibly a ribbon cutting.”
I rushed through the story: meeting “Allen”, the insane chemistry, and then discovering him as Noah this morning.
“But the makeout was life-changing, right?” she asked.
“Harper! Bigger problems,” I hissed. “If this gets out, my reputation is ruined. Small towns love a ‘slept her way to the top’ storyline.”
“Well, on the bright side, you didn’t actually sleep with him,” she said. “Not yet, at least.”
“Not yet and not ever,” I said firmly. “There’s too much on the line. My parents. My trial period. I can’t be ruined in the event industry before I even make a name for myself.”
God, of course this would happen to me—the one time I let my freak flag fly.
“If he’s not making a big deal out of it, neither should you,” she said. “You can just be coworkers who constantly envision each other naked.”
“Why do I keep you around?” I muttered. “I need to get back out there before someone thinks I’ve caught a contagious illness.”
“Go get ’em, tiger,” Harper said. “And remember the other brothers are off-limits, too, you little hoe.”
I hung up to the sound of her laughter, splashed cold water on my face, and headed back into the lobby. Eli and Grant were huddled over the guest services desk, popping up when they saw me. Grant sauntered over with a swagger he probably assumed worked on most women in town.
“I’m Grant,” he said. “Third Whitaker brother and obviously the most attractive.”
Eli rolled his eyes and walked over with a sheepish grin on his face. “Grant filled me in. Whatever did or didn’t happen between you and Noah doesn’t leave this room.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I said. “I’m excited about the work I get to do here, and I’d hate to sour it with…a mix-up.”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t sweat it,” Grant said. “People almost sleep with their bosses all the time.”
Eli and I stared at him, and I briefly wondered if he’d been dropped as a baby.
“You know? In all the TV shows and movies….” he trailed off.
Eli sighed and gestured with his head. “Noah’s still in his office if you want to talk through event ideas.”
“I’d actually love not to be the topic of conversation anymore,” I said. “Talking about my ideas sounds spectacular.”
I took note of the staff moving through the lobby: the bearded chef, an older woman pushing a cleaning cart, who definitely looked like she made cookies from scratch, and made a mental note to introduce myself later. I knocked on Noah’s door and stepped inside, leaving no room for awkwardness.
“I have some ideas to pitch you if you’d like to hear them.” I could tell the abrupt change in conversation surprised him, but if I lingered on our previous indiscretions, I would never survive the day.
He blinked a couple of times, his eyes lingering on me for half a second too long before he loosened the collar on his shirt and replied, “Absolutely. Hit me with whatever you have.”
If there was one thing I wasn’t lacking, it was ambition.
Over the course of my three months, I had plans for an early summer festival to help promote local businesses—a sort of live, shop-local campaign—an entire day focused on hosting wedding planners in Middle TN with the sole goal of booking at least two weddings, and hopefully convincing the home chef convention planners to book at the inn instead of the convention center one town over.
“Since the festival is our inaugural event, I’d like to have local vendors, booths lining the grounds of the inn, and interactive activities both on the porch and inside the lobby.
I think the next best step would be for me to see who’s interested and exactly what they could offer if they had a booth. ”
I was busy jotting notes down in my notebook, and when I looked up, Noah was watching me, something unreadable in his eyes.
“I’m not sure you even need me. You seem to have an excellent handle on things,” he said, his voice low and teasing. Honestly, it was annoying what his voice was doing to my pulse—downright rude, some would say, considering the circumstances. My hands tightened around my notebook. Cue my exit.
“Thanks, boss,” I chirped. “I’ll have a formal list ready for you by the end of the week.”
“Bailey, wait—”
Nope, not today.
The only way this was going to work out was if I limited our interactions together. He was a complication I couldn’t afford to get swept up in.
They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, but since that wasn’t an option either, I planned to keep myself as busy as possible pulling off this festival.
I needed to learn the lay of the land, and what better way to do that than to hit the actual pavement of Bexley.
It would have been more efficient for me to reach out to all of the businesses via email, but where was the small-town charm in that?
I headed down Bexley Main, grateful for the excuse to get out of the inn.
First stop: Twinkle Toes Dance Academy.
The inside of the studio was painted bright pink, and toddler-sized tutus hung on a rack for sale by the front door. Trophies lined a shelf near the ceiling, and the entire place had the faint scent of kid. You know the one that smelled like dirt, baby powder, and sickness?
I peered into one of the studios where toddlers wobbled across the floor in tiny tutus, and a frantic-looking teacher attempted to keep them all upright. At the desk sat a fresh-faced young woman, barely twenty, maybe, with a name tag reading: Piper.
“You must be new to town,” she said, standing to shake my hand.
“What gave it away?” I laughed. “My lack of sensible shoes?”
“Everyone local knows to avoid the studio during the morning classes,” she replied seriously. “The kids are tiny, but the wannabe dance moms are vicious.”
I waited for her to smile or laugh at her joke. She didn’t.
“Good to know,” I said. “I’m Bailey, the new events coordinator at The Whitaker Inn.
We’re hosting a summer festival and wanted to see if the studio would be interested in participating.
You could teach a short combo or sell merchandise, really anything to help you drum up customers and put a face to the business. ”
Her eyes lit up as she took my info. “Not my call, but I think the owner would love that.”
I looked around, “Do you get pretty steady business around here?”
“For the most part, yes. We lose students as they get older and start looking for more serious training.”
“You can’t offer more intense training here?” I asked gently.
She grimaced. “We were planning to expand our ballet program. A showcase every spring with classic variations and a Nutcracker rendition in December. I was going to lead it.” She gestured toward her ankle. “Then I got injured, and those plans were put on the back burner.”
“I’m so—”
“No pity or apologies needed,” she replied. “I’ll get back to you ASAP. Maybe we could host a pop-up class to spark interest.”
“Sounds like a brilliant idea to me.”
As I turned to leave, she added, “You planning on sticking around?”
“I think I’d like to,” I said after a beat. “Still figuring out if the inn and I are the right fit.” More like if Noah and I could exist in the same room together without one of us combusting from nerves or attraction.
“The Whitaker brothers are town royalty,” she said warmly. “But they earned it. Their mom raised four boys while running that place. She’s got a heart of gold.”
I thanked Piper for her time and smiled as I stepped outside, watching parents press against the glass, trying and failing to capture their toddlers balancing on one leg.
I continued my trek down Main, avoiding the smell of milkshakes coming from a place called The Rusty Spoon and taking note of the judgmental-looking grandmas who were knitting on their front porches.
One business turned into another, and soon enough, I’d almost ticked off every business on my list. Maple & Stone Coffee Co.
was my last stop of the day, and the thought of a warm, sweet drink perked up my mood.
The door chimed as I walked in, and I was instantly surrounded by scents of cinnamon, pumpkin, and maple.
Who said a pumpkin spice latte couldn’t be a year-round drink?
The interior of this place was incredible. Cozy couches lined the edges of the room, while intimate tables were scattered throughout with small lamps and candles. Screw a chain coffee shop—I’d rather fight a barista over the last scone here than ever drink burnt corporate coffee again.
I walked up and immediately spotted a hazelnut latte on the menu calling my name. I placed my order, the barista sliding my drink across the counter with a knowing glance in her eye, like she already knew I was causing trouble. Was I that much of an open book?
As I settled into a couch in the corner, I reflected on the mayhem of the past twenty-four hours. A new town, new job, new scandal. Jesus, what a disaster.
I considered responding to my mother but was interrupted by a stunning redhead before I could think of a response.
“You must be Bailey,” she said, and I thought, wow, news traveled fast around here. “I’m Tessa.”
There was something instantly comforting about her presence, and it was the first time I’d felt at ease all day. “I own this shop, and I couldn’t let you stop in without saying hi. I’m somewhat of a friend of the Whitakers, so I got a heads-up about you popping into town. Can I sit with you?”
“Please do,” I said, sliding my bag to the side as she settled across from me.
Tessa wrapped her hands around her mug, studying me with a look that felt less curious and more knowing. “Starting over is a nuanced task,” she said simply. “Bexley Grove has a way of making sure you feel it.”
I sipped my coffee before responding. “Obvious, huh?”
She smiled. “Only to those of us who’ve done it.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is that a story I want to hear?”
“Honestly?” She grimaced. “Probably not. It’s more of a two months-in, plus four-drinks-deep kind of story, and I try not to tell it often.” I understood that sentiment more than she knew. “But I’m happy to exchange numbers so we can make that a reality one day.”
I slid my phone over, excited to maybe have an ally in this town, when a thought crossed my mind. “Is there anything helpful you could share with me about Noah? Just trying to study up on my boss,” I said, hoping my poor excuse for a cover-up was believable.
A smile lit up her face. “Actually, yes, I have loads I could—” She was cut off by the sound of a disgruntled customer at the front counter complaining over their drink being made with skim milk instead of low-fat.
I looked around the shop. Were these the kinds of things people actually picked fights over in small towns? Tessa shot me an apologetic look before heading to the front counter.
“Will, I saved you a whole twenty calories by switching that milk for ya,” she said, immediately jumping back into boss mode.
I sat at my table and sipped my drink, the low hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine keeping me entertained. I glanced down at my notebook, the list of businesses all neatly checked off, proof that despite the chaos, I did what I came here to do.
I could do this. I could keep my head down, do my job, and prove I deserved to be there.
Noah Whitaker was just my boss. And if I repeated that often enough, maybe by the end of the week, I’d believe it.